


Night and Day

by reus123



Category: Town of Salem (Video Game)
Genre: More sad content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 09:08:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16426499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reus123/pseuds/reus123
Summary: A dual narrative





	1. Night

**Author's Note:**

> This was written when spies could still hear mafia chat, which I thought was pretty neat. It was also written long before Idolatry so the blackmailer is a far less developed character.

"Hi spy." 

The usual greeting, cracking through static-filled transmission lines and into his ears as night draws its dark curtain around him. He mutters a response, settling into his chair with a soft sigh. The hat that usually covers his head sits beside him at the table, in front of a wide computer monitor displaying the movements of dark dots across a pixelated screen. He observes them carefully, occasionally jotting down notes in a worn notebook. As usual, there are three, their tracking devices broadcasting their location as they scurry across the town, and he wonders if he'll be able to hear the gunshot. 

\--

"Hi spy."

The next night goes the same way, the shadowy figure yawning silently into the cup of coffee clutched tightly between fingers bleached with exhaustion. A familiar black envelope rests upon his keyboard, those glossy photographs fanned out on his work table. It's reassuring, this nightly exchange. It lets him know that he can live another day. Whispered words flit from the static, noted by a shaking hand onto torn pages. The Mafia's movements are all too familiar, and he knows that they won't last. They never do. His eyes droop as he watches, but he forces himself back awake. There is no time to rest, not for him. 

\--

"Hi spy." 

His reply is muted, his voice cracked from late nights and early mornings. The cup stands empty, having been drained long ago, his aching muscles unable to muster the energy needed to replenish his supply. There was a photograph of himself in the envelope, and he wonders whether the Blackmailer knows that there's no use in silencing him anymore, that he was never a real threat. His handwriting in the notebook has become an almost unreadable scrawl, but he cannot allow himself to sleep. Not yet.

\--

There is no greeting tonight. He stretches his teeth in a pained grin, remembering the way that the man's body had swung on the rope, the way his last breaths choked out, and the grins of his fellow town. Those idiots hadn't set the rope right. The envelope arrives as usual, but its contents are different. He squints in the half darkness, feeling his throat constrict as he recognises the faces inside. There's the man they hanged today, looking uncharacteristically happy, the desperation and fear gone from his eyes. There is a note as well, penned in the Blackmailer's hand, and he cannot read beyond one sentence before he suddenly feels sick. The cup of cold coffee rests, ignored, next to his open notebook and pen. There is no energy in his spent movements, but he must observe. He must.

\--

"Hey spy." 

The familiar voice startles him from a half dream, the bright glow of the monitor assaulting his aching eyes. Sleep creeps behind him like an invisible demon, ready to drag his tired body into the murky darkness, should he let down his guard. "It's over for me, you know." The statement brings back flashes of today's gruesome execution, the clean snap of the rope doing nothing to erase the panic flitting across those features. "I'm going to be caught, sooner rather than later." He winces at the lacklustre tone, recognising in that anonymous voice his own lethargy. "And I'm so sorry for doing this, but it's what he would have wanted me to do." _I know_ , he wants to say, _I understand_. The figure on his monitor nears a familiar door. His door, he realises, with a dull, faraway ache of alarm. Footsteps enter his house, treading softly over to where he sits, eyes glued to the monitor in front of him. The cold steel of a gun barrel presses itself against the base of his skull as another hand softly covers his open eyes, gently closing his eyelids. He wants to plead with his executioner to end it quickly, wants his gratitude to spill from his mouth in articulate phrases, but he is much too tired to do anything but sit and wait. The darkness is all-encompassing. He relaxes into the light touch, finally able to rest. There is a click as their finger tightens on the trigger.

"Goodnight, spy."


	2. Day

It tears him apart, this gradual erosion. He hates it. He hates watching those he cares about come under suspicion, hates the way everyone's gaze falls on them with expressions of casual bloodlust, hates their public executions, as if they are examples marked out in blood and death. Most nights he wakes from recurring nightmares, the snap of the rope still echoing in his ears. Daylight only makes those terrors a reality.

\--

He looks tired. The Spy slouches from his home, eyes sunken with an expression of lethargy that he knows all too well. The coat collar is upturned, and those eyes are hidden behind dark shades, but he can still read the other man pretty well. The Consigliere turns to him. "You're right, you know. We should get rid of him." There is worry etched into that familiar face, and he feels his heart thump a little faster. 

\--

The Investigator has a glint to his eye as he watches them arrive in the town square. His hand trembles as it touches the Consigliere's in silent warning and the other man nods discreetly. A familiar sickness creeps up his throat as he waits. There is no flourish, no grand reveal, just the brutal facts that stop his breath and slicks his palms with sweat. The Consigliere lies easily, slipping from suspicion. He breathes a little easier, hoping that they will survive tomorrow. 

\--

The next day, the Investigator is eyeing their Mafioso with a look that makes him shudder. He wants to call out, to deflect the claim, but the Town is too quick to vote him up, and he can do nothing but watch as his friend chokes on his last breaths. His stomach heaves at the sheer brutality, their cheers making him sick. The Consigliere lies a hand on his back, offering him a handkerchief to brush the tears from his eyes. Their walk home is silent. They cobble together a grave marker from scraps of wood and twine, the Mafioso's name etched into it by a shaking hand. There is no anger anymore, just heavy hearted resignation as the Consigliere bids him farewell, smiling with sad eyes. There is no use in voicing what they both know. The town is full of hatred, and only their suffering can sate it. 

\--

"If I die today, you know what to do," the Consigliere murmurs, and not a moment too soon. The Sheriff calls him out, and the Town follows blindly. He wants to scream at them, to beg them to look beyond their prejudices and realise that he doesn't deserve to die, that none of them ever did. But of course he stays silent, for fear of being caught. The Consigliere looks at him with a sad smile before his body drops, and he feels a sob clawing up his throat. There is nobody left but him, he realises, the Town's grinning faces chilling him to the bone. 

\--

It's over. He knows, before the Lookout does as much as glances in his direction. The other man refuses to meet his eye, as if ashamed to have seen him last night. The gun in his holster seems to weigh almost as much as the guilt on his mind, suppressing all else but his own treasured memories. He hardly feels the rope slip around his neck, his tormented thoughts begging for some release from the endless lethargy plaguing every step like a waking demon. They ask him for some last words, their eyes piercing through him. "I did it for him," he whispers, and he falls into empty air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to focus on how two similar individuals from two different backgrounds would react to stuff, which is why the earlier versions of spy/blackmailer are so similar. I also wanted to show the hopelessness that comes from playing mafia when your teammates can't fake claim properly.


End file.
